Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Milo

My house was full of laughter and light when my mom was around. I’d wake up every morning with her dancing around the kitchen while music blasted as she made me breakfast before school. It was never a simple kind of breakfast, either. She’d always go above and beyond, making freshly baked muffins along with a frittata or some bullshit.

She’d make the biggest pot of coffee, drink just about all of it, and then try to engage me in her dancing, too. I never did, seeing how I was the opposite of a morning person. I got that trait from my father.

I never realized how much I took that for granted until those days disappeared. I hated that it wasn’t a quick fade, either. When she got sick, the music never played as loudly as before. Then the dancing slowed. She couldn’t make the fancy breakfasts, either. I knew it was hard for her, so I’d sometimes cook for her. I’d put on the music when she’d forget. I’d dance now and again to make her laugh.

Her laugh…

I missed her laughter the most.

She’d also make her big pot of homemade gravy for our Sunday dinner. It was a slow-cooking pasta sauce that tasted as if the gods had made it. Sunday dinners were a big deal at our house. We used to have dozens and dozens of people over for the meal, some of my friends included, and we’d laugh until the sun went down as everyone went apeshit over Mom’s cooking.

I missed the taste of her love. I knew it sounded crazy, but it wasn’t the ingredients she used but rather how she used them. Dad always joked that the magic was in her favorite wooden spoon that she mixed the gravy with. Now, the spoon just sat in the pantry with the rest of her cooking equipment, mostly left unbothered.

It was odd thinking about how lively the house used to be. Now, each morning was quiet, especially on the weekends. Most of the time, Dad was missing in action by the time I woke up, which was pretty early. Even though I wasn’t a morning person, I usually woke up at the crack of dawn to catch the sunrises—something I started doing after Mom passed away. I had no idea where that man went. I just knew he wasn’t at home.

When I’d get up on the weekends, I’d make my breakfast, crawl back into my room, and sit in the darkness of a house that once was a home. It was a house packed with haunting memories of how good life was before. On days when the silence would get too loud, I did one of two things. I used sex to distract me, or I’d hang out with my friends.

Sex was my main go-to since I’d lost my virginity a few years back. I’d had quite the reputation around my part of town. It wasn’t some secret that I tried to keep. A lot had known me by many names. Some called me a manwhore, others called me Daddy, but most women called me Dick.

Like birthday girl.

Fucking birthday girl.

What was that about?

Last night didn’t go as planned. Well, it did…until it didn’t.

My mind kept thinking about the night at the frat house and the quirky and weird woman. Something about her unsettled me. She looked at me as if she could see the real me. The me that most people overlooked outside of my small core friend group. That bothered me a lot. Or it intrigued me—one of the two.

Plus, the sex…

That was one of the most enjoyable nights of my life, and I didn’t even know her name. I’d slept with my fair share of people, but nobody made me feel like that woman did, and she hadn’t even gone down on me.

She was chaotic, too, which was oddly amusing. I didn’t feel that often, either—amused. Since we’d hooked up yesterday, she’d crossed my mind more than I would’ve appreciated. Usually after my hookups, the women never crossed my mind again. I’d never hooked up with the same girl twice. It left little room for emotions to get involved. But for some reason, I missed her taste on my tongue. The night we shared was almost too much for me.

The moment I left that bedroom, I hightailed it out of there. I couldn’t explain what I’d felt. It was as if my world was knocked off-kilter. I felt like an ass as I tossed on my clothes and made a beeline for the exit, but I couldn’t stay in there with her. Something about her eyes made me want to be real, and I didn’t want that. I felt the unease of her soft stare building a panic in my chest because she felt so different from all the women before her. Most of them made me forget about life. She made me wonder.

Based on how I was reacting, she probably thought I was an asshole, yet she had no clue that my body was shutting down. My hands grew sweaty as she sat in that bed, looking my way. My eyes glassed over as a feeling of panic overwhelmed me. I’ve had many panic attacks over the past three years, but never after sex. Sex was the thing that tamed my anxiety, not reinforced it.

The panic attacks typically only presented themselves when I’d think about my mom too much. And trust me, when I was in that room, I was not thinking about Mother dearest. I had no damn idea why that woman pulled that level of unease out of me. I hoped we’d never cross paths again for my well-being. But still, I couldn’t stop thinking about the sex. It was so good that I didn’t feel like hooking up with another girl that evening.

Therefore, I had to go to the second thing that helped me when my mind was too loud and the silence was too much—my friends.

It was no secret that I’d been a shitty friend over the past few years, but they still let me hang around them. I guessed those were the people who mattered the most—the ones who saw you at your worst and still wanted to have you around.

Most of my friend group kicked it at Savannah’s place on weekends. Savannah was my oldest friend. We’d known each other since before we could say our first words. Our moms were close friends. Savannah always acted like my big sister even though she was younger than me. Her instinct was to be motherly with our whole friend group and me.

Her parents were well-off and lived in an upscale neighborhood. You couldn’t drive down the block without seeing a luxury car parked in every driveway. That weekend, her parents were out of town, so she had everyone over to drink and smoke a bit, which seemed to be what I needed.

Our main friend group was small at six, but we had strong personalities. We’d all met in elementary school, outside of the new guy, Tom.

First, there was Brian, the gamer. He always talked about what games were coming out and the hottest stuff on the market. I did not doubt he’d someday be the multimillionaire owner of a video game company. His knowledge was remarkable. He was also a year older than me and attended UW-Milwaukee for college. He was why I ended up at a damn frat party the night before.

Then there was Chris. He was pretty shy. Savannah and I met him in the third grade when two kids were bullying him on the playground. Savannah gave the two guys a black eye and told Chris to stick around us. He never left after that.

Bonnie was Savannah’s girlfriend. They’d been going together for two years, and I’d never seen a pair more right for one another. Tom was the newest—he met Bonnie at their job at the local Target. I didn’t know much about him because he met me in my emo era. He hadn’t known me before my mom got sick, so he’d only seen my closed-off side.

The night was uneventful. We’d always ended up in the basement of Savannah’s house because her parents told us if we were going to smoke pot or drink, we had to do it down there. That way, they knew we’d be safe instead of drinking and driving. It seemed odd that her parents were so okay with that fact. Rich people lived by a different set of rules. My mom would’ve never let that fly.

I was thinking about Mom again. I was too sober.

Chris, Tom, and Brian sat in front of the television, playing a video game, going back and forth about something. I wasn’t listening closely enough to pick up on the conversation. I couldn’t think of the last time I talked to them. Most of the time, I just showed up, smoked, and drank.

“Stop being a hog. Pass it over here,” Savannah said, nudging me in the leg as we sat on her couch with Bonnie. I took another drag of the joint before passing it to Savannah. “You’re being weird,” she mentioned before she passed the joint to Bonnie. “Are you okay?”

That felt like a loaded question.

Savannah always asked me if I was okay. She constantly worried about me. With good reason, I supposed.

“I’m fine,” I said. Same answer I’d always given.

“Rumor has it that you hooked up with a girl last night at that frat party,” Bonnie mentioned.

“Is that the rumor?” I asked.

“That’s the rumor,” they said in unison.

“Then the rumor must’ve been true.”

“We need you to find another form of coping, Milo,” Savannah said. “Sexually transmitted infections are real. Speaking of, I hope you’re still wrapping your dill pickle.”

“Please don’t refer to my cock as a dill pickle,” I flatly replied.

“Yeah, Savannah. I’m sure he’s more of a summer sausage,” Bonnie added. “If he’s a dill pickle, that means it’s green, which means an STI is going on.”

Savannah turned to me. “Is your dill pickle green, Milo? If so, we can help you with that. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She said it with such motherly care that it made me miss my mom.

I stayed quiet again because talking about a dill pickle green dick wasn’t at the top of my to-do list for the night. Feeling numb was the only thing I was searching for.

Savannah nudged me again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I replied.

She frowned because she cared. I hated how much she cared. All of my friends cared. They’d watched me go through the worst years of my life and stuck by my side even when I tried to push them away. I didn’t deserve them. I didn’t deserve much of anything from anyone.

“You’re so weird tonight. Are you sure you’re okay?”

No. I’m not, Savannah.

She wasn’t wrong.

I was weird that night. Because while I was there, I wasn’t there -there. My mind was elsewhere.

It’s been almost one year, Mom.

One year without you.

Shit.

I was still too sober because my heart was still beating, and my thoughts were still thinking. I knew my friends wanted me to open up, but I didn’t know how. Plus, I didn’t need to talk about my sadness. I lived with it day in and day out. That seemed like enough torment on its own—no need to put words to it.

Ignoring my friends, I stood from the couch and headed to the bar. Reaching into the cabinet, I pulled out a red plastic cup and poured myself half a cup of Hennessy. I was almost to the point where I couldn’t think about Mom, which meant I was almost blackout level.

I chugged the alcohol. It burned on the way down, but I hardly flinched.

I poured another cup full and downed it, too. I did that a few more times when no one was looking, and after a while, the noise in my head subsided.

“Hey, Milo. I have a question for you. I heard you and Erica Court hooked up before, yeah?” Tom asked me as he walked over and patted me on the back.

I had to give it to the guy. He didn’t let my closed-off ways faze him. He was always kind to me, like he was nice with everyone else. He talked too much for my liking, but I thought everyone talked too much. Most of the time, I wished people knew how to shut the hell up.

I gave him bonus points because he always had a mint container with feel-good pills if anyone needed an extra boost. That, and Jolly Ranchers. He was obsessed with candy, both the legal and illegal kind.

“I don’t know who that is,” I replied.

“Erica Court. Cute girl who always wears high pigtails. She’s into anime, sometimes dresses up with cat ears.”

Oh, cat ears girl. Yeah. I’d screwed her. She meowed during the whole thing. “What about her?”

“Are you into her?”

I arched my eyebrow. “Into her?”

“Yeah. Since you two hooked up, I wanted to ensure I wasn’t stepping on any toes because she asked me out. I didn’t want to disrespect our friendship. I wanted to ask permission first.”

Oh, Tom. Sweet, thoughtful Tom.

“By all means, go for it,” I muttered, pouring another drink and downing it. I probably didn’t need that one.

I patted Tom on the back. “I’m out tonight.”

“What? It’s still early!”

“It’s two in the morning, and I’ve got somewhere to be tomorrow,” I muttered, grabbing my keys and jacket from the back of one of the chairs. “I’m out.”

I stumbled toward the stairs, running into a side table I didn’t see. “Shit,” I muttered, trying to shake off the throbbing pain shooting through my toe. “Fucking hell,” I griped.

Savannah somersaulted from the couch and shot over to me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I grumbled, walking up the stairs.

“You’re always running into stuff. It would help if you opened your eyes more. My blind dog sees better than you.”

“I didn’t see the damn table,” I remarked as I continued to the front door.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Home.”

“You’re drunk and high.”

“Thank you, captain obvious,” I sarcastically replied. I was mean when I drank. As I said, I was a shitty friend. I made it to the front door, and she blocked my path. “Move, Savannah.”

“It’s not safe, Milo.”

“I’m not safe,” I echoed.

She placed a hand on my forearm, glanced around the room, and moved in closer to whisper, “Milo, I know things have been hard for you since your mom died, and I know the first anniversary is—”

“Don’t,” I warned. “Don’t keep speaking.”

Her blue eyes grew somber, but I didn’t care. How dare she look sad when she had no reason to be. Her parents were still alive. They still celebrated birthdays with her. They were still able to get pissed at her for her bad choices. They still said “I love you” to her. She knew nothing about sadness and how it infected every inch of a person’s soul. She knew nothing about the nightmares both during the daytime and at night. She knew nothing about what true heartache felt like. Hell, she still had four grandparents. The closest Savannah ever got to death was what she saw in the movies. I’d seen death up close and personal with the only person who ever meant shit to me. That didn’t seem fair. Then again, who said life was fair?

“Milo—”

“Move, Savannah,” I bellowed, drunk, rude, and heartless.

Her eyes flashed with more emotions.

She still wouldn’t budge, so I did what I had to. I placed my hands against her arms, lifted her body, and removed her from the door.

I stumbled down to my car and slid into the driver’s seat. My vision was fading in and out. I couldn’t think or see straight, so I couldn’t drive. I wished I could drive. All I wanted was to go home.

I hopped out of the car and looked up at the sky. It was dark and snowing. I couldn’t see any stars, but I felt the snow. Mom loved the snow. Winter was her favorite season. Everything about it reminded me of her.

I walked over to Savannah’s yard and let my body drop against the foot of snow that had fallen over the past few days. I spread my arms out and began to make a snow angel. Mom used to make snow angels with me when I was a kid. Then she’d make us homemade hot cocoa. She’d always add extra marshmallows to mine.

I loved the extra marshmallows.

I should’ve felt cold out there. I should’ve been shivering or something.

Maybe I was shivering. Maybe I was getting frostbite.

Perhaps I was dying.

That would be a plot twist.

My arms and legs glided up and down, making an angel in the snow before I blacked out.

I woke up the following morning in a random bed. The room was pitch-black, and it took a second for my eyes to focus. It was still dark out. I glanced down at my outfit, and I wasn’t in my clothes.

“What the hell?” I muttered, glancing around.

“Morning, sunshine,” a voice remarked. I looked up to find Tom sitting at the desk across from me. “Took you long enough to get up.”

“Where am I?”

“In my humble abode. I found you passed out in the snow last night. I tossed you into my car and drove you here. Don’t ask how I changed your clothes.” He shivered as if he had chills. “I’m forever scarred from what I saw,” he joked.

I was at Tom’s house with a pounding headache wearing his clothing.

Either way, I wasn’t dying.

Damn.

“You want breakfast?” he asked.

I arched my eyebrow, trying to determine the amount I’d screwed up the night prior.

“Nah. Going home.” I pushed myself up from the bed, feeling next-level nauseous, but I didn’t want to hang around too long.

I glanced outside and saw the sun.

Damn.

I missed the sunrise.

Sorry, Mom.

That was the problem with being fucked up—you missed out on the important things.

Tom drove me back over to Savannah’s to pick up my car. I thanked him for helping me out, and he said anytime. It seemed like he meant that, too, which was odd. The guy didn’t even know me but treated me like we were best friends.

As I pulled into my driveway, I sighed, seeing Dad’s car in the garage. He’d left it wide-open and was parked on an angle. He hadn’t drunkenly passed out in the snow the night prior. He must’ve thought getting behind the wheel was a good idea.

At least I didn’t drive home wasted , I thought to myself as if trying to justify that I wasn’t my father. Though, I would’ve driven home like my dumbass father if I could’ve. I was no better than him. I was him in so many ways that it left me uncomfortable. Mom always said I was a carbon copy of my father. I always felt that that was some insult, though she said it as if it were praise.

I hated the parts of me that mirrored him, and lately, those parts seemed to move in rhythmic harmony. Drunk, high, and disconnected from the world.

Like father, like son.

I walked inside the house, and the smell of something burning instantly hit my nose. I turned the corner into the kitchen and groaned. “What the hell, Dad?” I barked, rushing to the oven and pulling out a black-as-night pizza. Burnt to a crisp. Tasty.

The oven was smoking like wild, and I hurried to open the windows to air out the house. I wasn’t fast enough because the smoke detector went off, echoing throughout the space.

I grabbed a newspaper and started fanning the detector to get it to shut off as the smoke cleared out of the space.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dad muttered, walking into the kitchen, still drunk, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He was wearing a suit, probably the one he had worn to work two days ago. I was shocked he hadn’t been fired yet, but judging by his looks, that was probably right around the corner.

“Your pizza is done,” I muttered, annoyed, angry, and sad.

“Shit. Forgot about that. I shut my eyes for a minute.”

“You could’ve burned this whole place down. You gotta be smarter.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to like that?” he barked, scratching at his scruffy hair. “Don’t forget who pays the bills here. Watch your tongue. Do you understand me?”

I didn’t reply because I didn’t care.

“Speaking about smart, I got a call from your uncle. He said you’re failing your classes. What’s that about?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. If your mother…” He paused as if he’d become frozen in time. The words rolling from his tongue seemed to work as a reminder that his wife, his best friend, was gone. He shook himself from the grief that sometimes choked him out midsentence. “You need discipline. It would be best if you enlisted after graduation. No question about it.”

Here we go again.

My father’s idea of parenting was telling me to become who he’d been, starting first with me joining the Army—the opposite of what I’d ever do. I was trying to run far from who my dad had been, not toward it.

“I’m not doing this,” I said, walking past him.

I bumped his shoulder, and he swung me around to face him. “Don’t do that. Don’t brush me off. You need to enlist.”

“I’m not doing this,” I repeated. “You’re drunk.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” he ordered.

“Don’t talk to me,” I dryly replied.

“Listen to me,” he barked, gripping my arm. He locked his eyes with mine, and it happened again—the suffocation of grief. I knew why it happened to him. I had her eyes. I figured that was why he’d hardly looked at me over the past year. I might’ve had my father’s asshole tendencies, but I held my mother’s eyes.

He dropped the hold of my arm and averted his eyes. He moved over to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out a pack of beer. “Do your damn schoolwork and get your life back on track,” he ordered.

You first, Father dearest. You first.

Over the next days, I knew the tension in the house was only going to get worse. We’d step on one another’s toes, trying to avoid facing the fact that we were approaching the year mark of Mom being gone. He’d drink more, I’d smoke more, and we’d pretend we weren’t falling apart until we ultimately crashed.

A ticking time bomb.